And that’s the most truthful thing I’ve said to anyone in a long time.
It takes me a while to fall asleep, and when I finally do I slip into a strange dream where James and I are back at Hank’s with our knees interlaced again, but this time James smiles before tipping forward and kissing me.
CHAPTER SIX
James
“Are you purposely making your coffee shittier and shittier every day so I’ll leave sooner?” asks Tommy as he dumps a gallon of some nasty flavored creamer in his coffee mug.
“No, but I noticed your suitcases by the door.” The thought of him leaving right now has me wrestling with conflicting feelings. On one hand, he drives me up the wall and it’ll be nice to have my house back without him in it. On the other, I need him as a buffer between me and Madison. I want to be her friend—I plan to be her friend—but if it gets too difficult to bejusther friend, it would be nice to have Tommy around to handle most of the interactions with her. Despite how much it kills me to think of him spending any prolonged time with her.
“One of my boutique hotel clients in L.A. needs me on-site, like . . . yesterday. There was an issue with codes, and . . . anyway, yeah, I’m leaving.”
“Today?”
“As soon as Madison shows up and I can go over a few things with both of you.”
He attempts another drink and then clutches his throat, wheezing out a pained choking sound. “Seriously. Do you even have an esophagus anymore after drinking this every day?”
I sip from my mug like it’s fine wine. “I don’t need it to taste good. I need it to jump-start my body when I have to wake up at fiveA.M.”
Truthfully, I just make it the way my dad has always made it: a can of Folger’s dark roast coffee beans brewed strong and guzzled with a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon before going out to open up the tunnels and greenhouses ahead of the rest of the staff arriving. Drinking this coffee is one of my favorite parts of the day, but it has nothing to do with the flavor, never has. I’m one sentimental son of a bitch.
Tommy, however, as someone who had no interest in working on the farm, didn’t drink coffee at all while he still lived at home. In the summer he’d wake up around tenA.M. when my dad and I were already halfway through the day and pound a glass of milk and eat a Pop-Tart right from the wrapper before leaving to meet his friends.
I always wondered two things about Tommy: Why didn’t he want to work on the farm? And why didn’t my dad ever encourage him to like he constantly did me? Because here’s the thing. Martin Huxley is a good man and a fantastic dad who wasn’t the type to pick favorites—but sometimes it felt like he had by choosing me to run the farm. I asked him about it once and he said,Why would I force my son to work on a farm he hates? I hope he goes out and does big things with his life that make him happy.
He never said anything like that to me. Maybe because he didn’t need to. Everyone already knew I loved it here. And I really did.
Still do, despite wishing I didn’t.
Every week when my mom and dad call from their retirementvillage in Florida, I tell them the same thing: Farm’s great, I’m great, and the green beans have never been better.
It’s almost the full truth.
I look at the clock and note the time. “I’m not sure when Madison is going to be here but—”
“I just got off the phone with her. She’ll be here in thirty.”
Oh.Yeah. He’d know . . . because they talk. Madison has been communicating regularly with my brother, who she’s had an enormous crush on for years. All because I asked Tommy to be the point of contact with her.Such a great decision. I’m not regretting it at all.
“Which, by the way,” says Tommy, hopping up onto the countertop and then leaning over to dump his coffee down the sink, “I remembered Madison as the chaos tornado always cooking something in the kitchen with Mom. You did not tell me she has gotten superhot in her adult years.”
She’s always been superhot,is what I don’t say because I’m smarter than that.
“Be respectful.”
He smirks. “Touchy?”
“No. I just don’t want you talking about my friend and chef like she’s . . . I don’t know . . . up for grabs.” I wince, not liking the way I phrased that.
Tommy raises one of his eyebrows. “Is she not, though? Do you have dibs?”
“I do not havedibs.I have what’s called human decency. You should try it out sometimes and not sleep with the women you work with.”
He tilts his head. “But what if she wants to sleep with me? Hmm? What then?”
I shrug instead of kicking his teeth down his throat. “It’s her choice. But I’m pretty sure she’s smarter than that.”
